By, Sandra Monday
You can never go home
Is what they say
When you try to
It’s like the Mendela effect has everything erased
No Happ’s cafe just an empty green space
Condemned wood slated rusted tin roof roach ridden child hood home
Where stands empty the windows cavernous sockets.
Rubble and weeds remain silent where Pic n Save burned to the ground
Motorcycles Rev through the streets with a sound full of anger
Florida’s best kept secret doesn’t cotton to outsiders
And suddenly I realize that’s what I always was even when I lived here.
I wandered among fields of phlox alone picking them for Amma
Who would always smile kindly and put them in what appeared to be crystal and delicate
I clung to the ill-tempered woman at the library, who oddly liked me, but very few other people
all that’s left of her is a plaque on the building
I remember refinishing and painting chairs with Mrs. Deece in the Sunday school room,
loving how shiny the lacquer made our wooden table.
There’s a plaque for her too, and no children anymore.
Ms. Padgett’s decaying Victorian home where she told her stories of the school burning down in 1920
Tells me there is nothing here for me anymore.
Mr. Bluemont the sign painter who lived in a 2 room house behind us and gave me
My very first box of oil pastels is a ghost at my side
To memories od Grandmother Saul’s making me believe the large fork and spoon on the wall was for
their Giant guests who came to dinner to Grandfather Sauls trying to teach me to fly a Cessna
Making me think I was going to die when he turned off the engine and let it drop 1000ft.
I went home sobbing and pulled out the lightning ball, Uncle Harry’s last Christmas gift for me in 1991
Right before he died
I put my forehead on it until the glass grew warm
And imagined it as electric kisses from God zapping straight
Into my amygdala
For 3 days I stopped eating
I just couldn’t shake the sadness that struck me with
Brutal force in Eden cemetery Friday morning as I sat
My mother’s grave while the children played
They know nothing of rejection or abandonment
And at least from me they never will.
The ugly woman with the bull dog face
Would not let me see my father. I saw a curtain flicker and a lie was told.
She thinks I don’t deserve a father, but now I realize it is my father
Who does not deserve
Comments are closed for this blog post